


If Rain is the Worst of it

by GrumpyBones



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, i wrote something without angst, negative amounts of drama, they're still idiots though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyBones/pseuds/GrumpyBones
Summary: What do you get when you combine a soggy Vulcan, a smart ass Captain, an Iowa rain storm, and a tin roofed barn?





	If Rain is the Worst of it

A whole three weeks of shore leave meant that just about anywhere on Earth could have served as an ultimate destination following the Enterprise’s landing in San Francisco. The alpha crew’s plans alone left them scattered across the globe; Uhura visiting her grandparents in Africa, Chekov with his parents in Russia, Sulu having the privilege of a California-bound husband, and Bones had been gushing about the state of Georgia, and more so, reuniting with his daughter, for months now. And Scotty, well, you’d probably have to be in possession of a full court martial order and several tranquilizers to get him willingly off of the ship. While everyone else was out actually enjoying themselves, the Chief Engineer would be just as pleased spending his vacation illegally upgrading the circuit boards on deck nineteen. Not that the captain had any knowledge of such things.

Only Jim, to his own dismay, realized two weeks from touchdown that he had never bothered to outright ask Spock where his travels would find him staying. Kirk had too easily, though reasonably, he could argue, assumed the logical answer: That his Vulcan would employ his free time accomplishing the worthwhile task of making some unsuspecting herd of science TA’s at the academy feel righteously inadequate. 

So when Kirk did finally ask, in passing, over a soon to be victorious game of chess, “Where on Earth will you be setting up shop?” Jim had been understandably surprised by Spock’s casual reply of, “I was under the impression that I would be staying on your family’s property with you, though if you require me to find my own lodging nearby I believe there is still sufficient time to do so.”

The two-part source of the miscommunication was easy to locate once Jim was aware that one had occurred.

Firstly, Kirk had simply always been what one would call a casual talker. He has a tendency to speak wildly around an actual meaning, to overemphasize, and to sum up a 45 minute discussion about the beauty of an Iowan sunset with half-considered statements that dwelt along the lines of, “You really ought to come with me one of these times, see it for yourself.”

Second, and just as important, Spock has, emphatically, never been any of those things. He speaks plainly, choosing his words carefully, with the comprehension of how selective conversation should work. Spock enjoys the quicker path, and the straighter road, which had made it spectacularly easy to miss Jim’s figurative meaning, responding with, “I am free for the duration of the ship’s docking on Earth later this month,” in a quite literal way.

Spock hadn’t thought much of the captain only chuckling in response, and Jim, well, he’d have been more confused if his First Officer had let himself be pulled into the joke.

At the realization of how badly their wires had crossed, Kirk tried to school his expression over the chessboard. His mind quickly assembled the elaborate jigsaw puzzle, pieces falling into place with the ease of someone who has too often created similar situations. Finding that though he had been surprised by the ease in which Spock had decided to dedicate his free time to the tedium of farm work, Kirk wasn’t at all opposed to the company. Jim swallowed the ballot of questions he had, most of which centered around the theme of, _‘But why?’,_ and allowed excitement to bloom in their place. The thought of 23 days of Spock in civilian clothing, Iowan sun on his face and dirt of the fields under his nails… well, Jim wasn’t exactly going to decline.

Only now, four days into their Riverside jaunt, sprinting through the downpour despite their clothes having been soaked through about a half-mile ago, Kirk is beginning to wonder if this will be the long awaited occasion that causes Spock to finally admit to an emotion: Regret.

If he were a kinder man, then Jim would be trying harder not to so thoroughly enjoy the sight in front of him, drenched not being one of Spock’s finer looks. His normally pristine hair is plastered to his forehead in disarrayed patterns, Jim’s too-big work clothes hanging off of his thin frame in an overly ridiculous fashion with the added weight of the water, arms held just slightly away from his body as if he’s suddenly not sure what to do with them. It wouldn’t be so bad, really, if it weren’t for the addition of Spock’s stoic expression, so comically in mirror to the rest of his dramatically despondent aura. Kirk’s blaring smile can’t be helping the Vulcan’s mood, a sharp pain from where he’s nearly bitten through his lip to edge off a laugh only making the corners of his mouth squirm higher as Spock’s jaw muscles noticeably clench.

“If I am not mistaken,” the swamp thing finally speaks, “I recall warning you that I believed the weather shift to be imminent 12 minutes ago, to which you replied that I was, undoubtedly, incorrect.”

Jim tilts his head, fingers raking through his own hair quickly to shake some of the water out, if only to avoid looking at Spock’s sullen, hilarious, expression.

“12 minutes ago? Are you sure?”

“12.7,” is the heated reply.

“And you’re sure that’s what I said?” Kirk asks as he turns to walk the aisle that runs down the center of the small, unused barn, pretending to look for a towel he is nearly positive he’s not going to find. “Doesn’t sound like me.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Stop being such a worrywart,’ before insisting it was the ideal time for your third attempt at fixing the tractor’s hitch.”

“Ha!” Jim proclaims upon finding a horse blanket, folded up in the very last stall. It smells like the leather of the trunk it was stored in, of oak and hay and not a small amount of mustiness, though clean is clean. 

“Also,” Kirk says, loudly, as he begins making his way back towards the entrance where Spock seems intent on remaining, the pouting puddle decidedly done with following Jim around, “a correction: it was the _second_ go at fixing it. The first time I only checked to make sure that it still had a good amount of oil in it and was fully charged, that shouldn’t qualify as a true attempt. Not to mention the cylinders needed cleaning anyway so the _real_ first try shouldn’t count either, and I really do think that force priming it would have worked if I hadn’t been cut off by such an unforeseeable turn of events just now.” Spock’s face only becomes funnier the closer Kirk gets, his mouth sitting off-centered in a way that leaves Jim to think he may literally be biting his tongue. “What?” Kirk asks, trying to sound innocent, “We both just agreed that I never actually said it wasn’t going to rain.”

“You are, I believe the phrase to be, ‘splitting hairs’,” Spock’s gaze tracing the line of Jim’s exposed skin as he removes his sopping wet shirt, the look in his eyes the same one that has fueled Kirk’s foolish hopes for too long now.

“And you are welcome to head back to the house any time that you please,” Jim teases, his following chuckle lost in the sudden boom of thunder. “Though I think it best that you weather my company instead of the actual weather.”

Spock, despite his best efforts to appear overburdened, makes his way over to where Kirk is laying the blanket out on the planked flooring, settling down next to him before Jim’s even had the chance to claim his desired two-thirds of it. The Vulcan’s wet-flannel covered shoulder presses against his naked one, their work-booted feet resting against one another’s at the toes. Kirk’s pinky finger is currently being crushed under the weight of Spock’s hip, his arm resting in the too small space between them, leaving Jim to wonder if the Vulcan merely thinks its a knot in the wooden board below or if he wants the touch there as much as Kirk does. 

The barn only grows dimmer as the seconds tick off, quiet erupting between them as the true heart of the storm moves in quickly, the way that the summer ones always do. In barely a handful of minutes it looks more like evening than the 2pm that it actually is. Jim stares up at the tin roof, listening to the orchestra of clinks and clangs born of the rain slamming down against it, growing to a deafening level as the skies truly open up, unleashing the worst it has to offer them. Lightning illuminates the building through the doors at the opposite ends, the crashing of thunder sweeping in behind it, so loud that Kirk swears it feels as though it’s shaking the earth itself.

Jim’s head rolls to the side, looking towards the less enthusiastic half of the blanket, his attention pulled in like it always has been by Spock’s personal gravity. The Vulcan’s profile isn’t giving much away in terms of internal insight, even for him. He looks, if anything, grieved, which Kirk is having trouble making sense of. Jim amends his interpretation, telling himself that Spock's expression must be one of worry, finding it to be the most logically relevant emotion to their circumstances.

“The barn is grounded," Kirk offers, reassuringly, “we’re not about to meet our maker or anything.”

“Despite your penchant for devaluing your own safety, I trust that you would not do so with mine,” Spock says, voice not quite hitting the lighthearted tone that the twist of his lip is trying to sell.

“Still, it must be strange, coming from a desert planet,” Jim prods, trying to find a way to scoot closer without being so obvious, proximity his main line of connection to comfort. “I know you’re not exactly new to rain, but it’s like that for me still, with the ocean. I didn’t even see one in person until I was 15, you know? And it’s never stopped feeling alien, in a way, despite it being 70% of my homeworld.” Kirk’s sincere when he says, “I wouldn’t judge you, if you were a little affected by this.”

Spock blinks, slowly, before letting his head dip away from the ceiling, turning to look at Jim with a grace the human has never stopped admiring. His face is close, near enough that Kirk can count the droplets on his forehead, track the way that the water forms rills through his expression as they fall with gravity across the Vulcan’s skin.

“There are many things about you, Jim Kirk, that remain cause for a reaction.” Brown eyes flashing with a crack of lightning, holding focus on Jim’s own even as the walls seem to shake with the deafening rumble that follows. “I have ceased my endeavors to become immune to you.”

Jim vaguely remembers what breathing had felt like, before his lungs had been seized with revelation, before his heart had transcended the cavity of his ribs with a spell of blind panic and hope. An unhelpful, _“Spock…”_ squeezes out of him, though he can’t claim to know from which organ it was birthed. 

Seeming to understand what Kirk himself is still trying to, Spock shifts his arm from where it lays on his own abdomen, sliding over the edge of his body to cover Jim’s, his hand warmer than the human’s own. Something inside of Kirk must remain in command, or perhaps an autopilot has been set up for just this instance, as Jim’s palm flips over before he’s even returned to himself, fingers threading through Spock’s with a sigh that seems to come from them both.

The rain continues to fall in waves, the decreasing intensity only a testament to the level of fervor it had been before.

“I’ve —” Jim tries, squeezing Spock’s hand, his eyes dancing from the Vulcan’s umber ones to his mouth to his throat and back, the facade of confidence he wields on the ship not a common accessory when alone with his current company. “For awhile now,” he finally gets out, knowing, ridiculously, that he’ll be understood.

Spock’s hand squeezes back gently, brandishing his typical control.

“We are here now, ashayam,” Spock whispers, neck tilting his face back towards the patter of the storm, offering Kirk only half of one of his more blatant smiles.

Jim follows suit, his eyes pressing closed as a grin pushes at his cheeks, the lightening dancing on the other side of his eyelids. He breathes once, deeply, before the next grumble of thunder rolls out, tamer in it’s retreat, and muted in comparison to the warm in gale in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Some-Sorta-Horta](http://some-sorta-horta.tumblr.com) for allowing me to steal her very good thoughts.
> 
> And to [Pageling](http://cat-and-the-fiddle.tumblr.com) for making my 2am ramblings appear to be actual English (and for just putting up with me in general). 
> 
> Till next time you can find me at [GrumpyBonesey](http://grumpybonesy.tumblr.com) on tumblr. LLAP


End file.
